Caught In Between
by Mowee
Summary: When Combeferre is supposed to be asleep, the night before the barricade falls, he reflects on his childhood a bit.


**Caught In Between  
**By Mori  


The air is still and poised, and my heart beats wildly with anticipation. Tomorrow morning -- I may be dead then, or close to dying ... and maybe not. We shall see. There is a vague feeling about me, as if I am running towards a cliff, my arms stretched out wide. Either I will grow wings and fly, or I will fall. Now, these final hours of waiting, they are like the moment my feet leave the ground; that fleeting moment when I do not know what will happen next, and the scales are equal. I will live or I will die. The only thing I know is that there is no turning back, and all I can do is hope. And there _is_ nothing else I can do, but hope, and wait, and dream.   
  
My thoughts turn to you, Enjolras, for there are none closer to me than you are. Do you remember when we were young children? Your family was rich and happy, and you cared nothing for the world beyond the gates that caged you. There was a lovely garden just behind it, for your mother loved plants. I hope you will remember her tonight, Rémi, for it may be your last chance to do so.   
  
I visited often, and we played together. Peering mischievously through the leaves of a shrub, I can still see your bright young face, smiling and flushed with delight. We played so many games in that garden; enough that I do not remember much of my life outside it. Not then; it did not matter to me. Do you remember when we buried your mother's jewelry behind the rosebush, curious as to what would happen? She was furious, and after that, I did not see you for three weeks. When I came again, to find your mother's warm face peering through the bars as she admitted me, you were small and silent by her side. Soon afterwards, I had to run back home to retrieve a spade, with which to help you dig it up again.   
  
With these come memories not so pleasant, Enjolras. They are still so vivid for me, yet somehow distant, as if they had not really happened. There was that day -- I was with you, do you remember? -- we were still young, certainly you were no more than nine or ten. You were following me to Monsieur Buisson's house (he was that elderly fellow I liked to visit once a week; his wife made the most delicious apple turnovers, and he read books aloud to me), when something happened.   
  
I was turning to speak to you, when I looked and saw that you were no longer beside me, or behind me, or anywhere nearby. This put me into a state of mild panic; you were not out in the streets often, and did not know your way. When I began to search, however, you were not very difficult to find. The matter could not have been simpler than that you had been overwhelmed by curiosity and wandered into an alleyway without informing me.   
  
This particular alleyway had a dilapidated structure posted at its entrance, looking somewhat like a sentry -- it could have been a house -- and you had wondered what it was, and why it was there. When I found you, you were standing with a stricken expression on your face, staring at about five young boys who were clustered around you; pleading for a sou, one venturing as far as to slide a bony hand into your pocket. I had to pry their grimy little hands off your clothes -- the roughness of their skin surprised me -- and give them each a small coin before they were satisfied enough to leave you be.   
  
Once we were out of the alley, you were clinging to my arm, trembling. I assumed that you were frightened, and tried to comfort you, but you did not respond when I spoke. The paleness of your face worried me, and so I offered to take you straight home, instead of continuing to Monsieur Buisson's. But no -- you simply said you were all right, and let go of my shirt. Even so, a troubled expression lingered on your face, and it was a strange thing to see; you were normally a very happy boy. You would not stop rubbing the dirty streaks where the children's fingers had touched your shirt.   
  
It was not until we were back and safely behind your iron gates that you turned to me, frowning, and asked, "How can anyone live like that?"   
  
At first, having somewhat forgotten what had happened, I thought you meant Monsieur Buisson. The strange look that had vanished for the second half of our journey had returned to your features -- all this confused me. But when I realized who and what you were talking about, I laughed. I was well accustomed to the condition of the streets, having roamed them far more often than you did. "Rémi," I explained, as if I were an adult speaking to a very small child, "every place has people like that. Not everyone has money like we do. Don't trouble yourself over them."  
  
"It isn't funny." You looked so upset then, and your voice was so cold, as I had never heard it before. Instantly, I wished that I could take back my words, that I could run away and never face you until you had forgotten. But all I could do was stare into your scowling eyes, listen to you repeat quietly, "It isn't at all funny." And how I hated myself for ever thinking otherwise.  
  
After I had gone home, the hurt faded -- as it always did, in childhood -- and I made the mistake of thinking that you would come out of this mood very soon, and that we would go back to our games. For several days you did not talk to me, but I was not worried. This was common, when we had our occasional arguments, although it never lasted so long. Your father would tell me, "He has gone out." I made the mistake of thinking that things would be normal again, if only I gave you a week or so to 'recover' from this disturbance. Your mother -- thinking as I did -- threw out the stained shirt, hoping this would help you to forget.   
  
But Enjolras, you never did forget. You had changed in little more than a week; from that happy, carefree child, to something not far from the man I know now -- strong-willed, devoted, and separated from your peers by a wall too thick to penetrate. Can you not remember that child who was you, so long ago? I would not be surprised if you do not.   
  
And look where you have brought us, Enjolras. How close we are to those dreams you formed as a child, and never once let go of. You are with me on the cliff, Rémi -- let us open our wings together. Soon, we shall know.  


~ Fin ~


End file.
